


Bits and ficlets

by Nath



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nath/pseuds/Nath
Summary: Collection of some of my non-drabble short stories
Kudos: 1





	1. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the January 2015 Gfic Challlenge
> 
> Theme: June 2014, Bunny Hutch  
> Elements: Challenge: Third Age, Ring War: Resting after a day's journey in the Dead Marshes, Sam and Frodo discuss the nature of the marsh (libbstarz)
> 
> Summary: Sam has some ideas about the Dead Marshes

_I'm glad to be out of there,_ Sam thought as he turned to look behind. Frodo had called a rest and had sat down to eat a bite.

It was close to a day since the flying Wraith had passed overhead and they had left the Dead Marshes. To Sam's mind, the terrain had not improved, even if they were now on solid ground again. All that morning they had followed Gollum through a barren wasteland, with the mountains that bordered the Black Land ever drawing closer.

 _I suppose this_ is _better than those Marshes, even if my nose still won't believe we've actually left them behind._ He rubbed at a stubborn mud stain on his sleeve.

"Sam, sit down and take some rest as well." Frodo sounded almost stern, and continued to look at him until he did sit down. "That's better," he said. "My neck hurt looking up at you like that. But something's bothering you."

"It's nothing," Sam mumbled.

"It's not nothing if it has you frowning like that," Frodo replied. "Come on, out with it."

"I've been thinking some more about those Marshes, Mr. Frodo. The people we saw, I don't think were they real, that you could touch them, I mean. The battle Gollum said happened here was a very long time ago; there can't be whole bodies still in the water, can there?"

"I don't know," Frodo said. "It's unlikely that what we saw was real; I can't imagine there would be more than bones left after three thousand years. Yet we did see something …" He was silent for some time before he went on. "The lights and flames we saw burning over the water I might even say were natural – mere will-o'-the-wisps – if it hadn't been for the faces."

"We might have imagined them," Sam considered, "except that Gollum says he has seen them before." _And tried to touch them,_ he added silently, _and I shudder to think why._ "Could the Marshes be like the Barrow-downs?"

"What do you mean, Sam?" Frodo asked.

"Well… the wights in the Barrow-downs; those were not the people who were buried there, but spirits that Strider said were sent by the…the Witch-King of Angmar. Perhaps the faces we saw back in the Marshes were that kind of wight as well, but sent from Mordor?"

Frodo nodded. "You may be right, Sam."

"I hope I am," Sam replied. Frodo laughed and Sam blushed as he went on, "Not because I want to be right. But it would be awful if all those Men and Elves who fought so bravely against the Enemy were trapped in there."

Frodo shivered. "Yes, that would be awful, and I hope you're right too. Though the arm of the Enemy is long, and I certainly don't know what he would have been capable of then."

He did not say more, but in thought Sam added, _when he still had It._

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Frodo got up again. "We'd best be going on."

Sam sighed as he followed suit. _And the sooner we're done, the better._


	2. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the February 2015 Gfic Challlenge
> 
> Theme: International Fanworks Day  
> Elements: Daeron
> 
> Summary: A fiddle player visits a small town and gets an unexpected compliment

I’d had no intention of performing when I entered the small town on great Anduin’s bank, for I had still coin enough to take care of my needs, and I had learned long ago that music was the best way to reawaken the whisperings of the curse that still drives me, and always will. It also draws attention to me if I play somewhere more than once in a generation. Yet the fiddle in its case on my back led to the inevitable, so here I am, sitting in a corner of the town inn’s common room, providing some of the music for a wedding feast. As the last tone of my tune fades away, I put down my fiddle, and surreptitiously flex my right hand in an attempt to alleviate the pain in it.

Amid scattered applause – for I am only one part of the entertainment, and most guests are more intent on their drinking and don’t really notice the music – one of those who _were_ listening comes over. He seems intent on a chat, and I brace myself for a flood of compliments. As he sits down next to me, he says, “You play just like Daeron of old must have played.”

I blink, stunned, and he laughs, mistaking my confusion for modesty, false or otherwise.

“No, really,” he says, his eyes taking in my threadbare and oft-mended attire, “It’s rare enough to have a player of your obvious skill choose the life of a wandering minstrel, but the way you made what is no more than a banal, though cheerful ditty sound like a great ballad played in a king’s hall … That takes real mastery.”

I attempt to demur, and he laughs again.

“Do you play yourself?” I ask, trying to move his attention away from me, for most, if not all, men love to talk about themselves.

He nods eagerly. “I do, but I’m nowhere near as good as you are. Enough for a bit of a tune at a gathering, though, without setting the dogs a-howling, and that’s enough for here.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he laughs. “Don’t get me wrong; life is good and peaceful, but it can also be dull beyond belief, and I can’t help but wonder about the great stories, and what it must have been like. Can you imagine,” he asks, “how long Daeron played for Lúthien, and after loving her from afar for all that time, she falls for this stranger and forgets he is even there. That’s right cruel, and yet all that is ever sung about is Lúthien and Beren, hardly anything is said about Daeron.”

“Yet we do know all that you say about him, and the letters he made are still used after three ages,” I object.

“True,” he says, and sighs wistfully. “But enough for now, my friends are getting more beer, and I think you’re wanted to play again. Perhaps we will speak again later.”

I nod and smile as I pick up the fiddle again. _Perhaps_.


	3. Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for an MPTT LJ Challenge.
> 
> Theme: "Where have you been?"
> 
> Elements: "Where have you been?"

A suspicious look from the guard on duty is his first welcome, but his own snarl in response makes the other back off, even if he still tries to save face by questioning him.

“Where have you been, Gorsad? You should have been back weeks ago.”

“Bad-tempered as ever, huh? North along the Greenway, but I’ll keep my report for the master.”

*

“Our friends in Bree told you they’re willing to continue their business despite them Rangers sticking their noses in everything around the Shire? That is good news, Gorsad.”

Saruman smirks inwardly as the half-Orc preens at his praise.

_But why the sudden activity? Mithrandir has the Rangers doing his bidding, that much is clear, but has he finally become suspicious of my own spies around_ his _Shire? If he has, it has taken him long enough, but he’s too careful, and for that alone I will do well to keep an eye on him._

*

_I am pursuing my investigations, but it is hard. I have few resources, and the lands I must search are vast and wild_. Curunír – who appears in the palantír in his embodied shape – shakes his head.

_I do not want to hear excuses, Curunír. Your lack of results so far is disappointing._

Curunír shows no reaction. _I_ am _doing my best, Lord._


End file.
